


"Silver and Gold"

by fannishliss



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon - Comics, Coffee, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, In a way, Multi, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Red Room, Teacher-Student Relationship, but not necessarily in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Civil War, Natasha has coffee with her teacher from the Red Room: the American, the Winter Soldier, Sgt. James  Barnes... Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Silver and Gold"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [desertport](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=desertport).



> This is a Valentine's gift for Desertport. Hope you like it! :D

You pause for just a moment before pulling the door open.  He’ll be seated as far to the back as possible, clear sight lines to all the entrances and exits.  He’ll spot you before you spot him.  Even now, that knowledge, that he’s in there already, waiting, eyes on the door, makes your breath slow and your adrenaline rise.  He is a threat.   Everyone has their weaknesses; yours have been ruthlessly drilled out of you and mostly excised.  Your strength is that you are hardly ever taken off guard.  But this invitation did; it took you by surprise.  A lot of bridges were burned, but you know that’s not the end; you learned from the English nursery rhyme that you build them back up with iron bars, wood and clay, silver and gold… or with three quarters of an hour of conversation, one overpriced American coffee at a time.

Your eyes adjust to the dimness of the cafe and he is already looking away, the steel of his eyes directed aimlessly adrift, meant to put you at ease.  You step to the counter and place your order; you walk to him and stand beside his table.

“Natalia Alianovna,” he greets you, formally. You have not heard his voice in so long.

“Privyet,” you respond, deliberately informal, but your voice feels colder than it should.  In truth you are nervous, an unfamiliar feeling.

“Natasha?” the barista calls.  Your simple coffee is already poured, and you step away, and return.

“Natasha,” he says, a smile around the corners of his lips.

You bite your lip, unable to answer.  In Russia he had no name and it was forbidden to give him one; you could not call him The American, an epithet you were not supposed to know; and you would not call him The Winter Soldier, a name that denied the humanity you know he fought so hard to retain. In your heart you simply called him uchitel, teacher.

“My friends call me Bucky,” he says, staring up at you with those lucent eyes.

“Bucky,” you say, regaining your footing.  You quirk a smile back at him and take your seat.

“Steve misses you,” he says without preamble.

Your training suggests a dozen responses: give in to the blush, or flutter your lashes, or smile and ask how Steve is doing, or turn away with a frown, or sip at your coffee.

“I miss him too,” you say.  Honesty isn’t the most familiar tactic in your bag of tricks, even less so when it’s no trick at all.

“I think I understand why you chose your side,” he says. “Steve says to tell you he doesn’t hold it against you.”

“He’s too forgiving,” you state.

“Yeah,” he agrees.  Something in his left arm whirs and every muscle in your body tries to tense.

“Do you remember?” you ask him in Russian.

He blinks and when his eyes open his face is more like you remember.

“Da,” he says. “Pauchok,” he says.  He used to call you the little spider.  You wanted that name all to yourself; you never mentioned him to Yelena.

“If you remember,” you whisper, voice trembling, “then you know why I could not take your side.”

His level gaze invites you to continue, a Russian nod that is barely there.

“Without you, I would not be here today. I owe you my life many times over.  But I know, better than anyone, the monster they could make of you.”

The metallic whir raises the hairs on the back of your neck, deeply ingrained in muscle memory.

“You loved me, except when you were trying to kill me,” you smile. “But I understand, and I don’t hold it against you,”  another widow’s bite.

The ice of his eyes darkens as he weighs your words. “I’m sorry for many of things.  I’m sorry that I was used against you,” he says.

You look up into his unwavering gaze.  He is unbroken.  After suffering so much, for so long; after being obliterated and remade decade after decade; sold and used; tortured and abused — he is still unbroken.  This is what he taught you, so much more vital than bodily endurance.

“I’m the one who should apologize,” you say.  “I should have remembered, how you always fought your way back to the surface, no matter how many times they drowned you.”

“Ain’t always easy, saving a drowning man,” he says, switching back to English.  “Sometimes, he drags you down with him. You were afraid for Steve.  I appreciate that.”

He leans forward. Even seated, you shift into a defensive posture.

“Did you know who I was?” he asks.

“No,” you promise.  “The Winter Soldier never had a name.”

He blinks, his lashes veiling the silver gaze for a long moment.  “No name, no identity.  Nothing.”

“Not nothing,” you say.  “You were someone; you fought them as best you could, but you didn’t have the leverage.”

You remember the long fight sessions like dances.  His fighting style changed the more he taught you, the two of you challenging, adapting as you fought one another, until your moves were perfected and utterly unique to your own body, your own strengths and skillset.  The day you bested him two out of three was the last time you saw him before Odessa.  He was like a lion, deadly, massive, fast and graceful, but he taught you to use your size and speed against your opponents. In that kind of fight it’s all about leverage.  Against Hydra, he never had any, and you couldn’t take the chance he hadn’t found a place to set a fulcrum.

He had though.  Steve was the ideal immovable object, and Bucky was the machine the two of them could use to shift the world.

Tony’s side, the Law, was outnumbered by Steve’s five to six before they even got started.  Tony trusted in the Vision’s awesome powers to tip the balance, but he didn’t realize the full extent of Wanda’s abilities.  And he didn’t count on you pulling your punches against your former teammates.  Did Tony really think you’d fight to kill against Clint? No one understands how you and Clint work, but you owe him as much or more as you owe your old teacher. You subtly orchestrated a win for Steve’s side, for Justice; and you suddenly understand: Steve knew.  They both did.

Tears sting at your eyes.  You let them gather. 

His silver hand stays hidden in his pocket, under the table.  His normal hand moves slowly across the table, reaches out to you, gently alights upon yours, warm and human.  He touches you respectfully; you remember that respect and the end of your childhood.  You remember that one night you had of him, his gentleness.  You see now why you feel so safe, so at home, around Steve. The strong, sure touch of their hands is exactly the same.

“You didn’t trust me, and you were right.  You were ready to put me down, if I wasn’t really who Steve thought I was.  You were there to look out for Steve when he wouldn’t look out for himself.  And I’m here to say, thank you.  You did good.  Thank you, Natasha.”

He says your name, and it sounds foreign.

“Teacher,” you say, naming him now with the respect you could not show then, “I owe you my life, and I am sorry for my betrayal. Can you forgive me?”

“You have done nothing to forgive,” he answers. “Hey, your coffee’s gonna get cold,” he says, switching back to English.

“It’s just rent for the table and chairs,” you shrug.

“Stevie really wants to see you,” he says.  “And I’d like to get to know you, now you’re all grown up.”

You smile, and it’s a widow’s smile; you kept the memory of his body and your final rite of passage; they allowed you to keep the loss of him.  They erased him brutally while you looked on and you didn’t see him again for years, years, more years than you will ever admit.

You smile with your lush red lips and glance to see what he is asking.

“It’s his mama’s ring,” he says, and the thin band glinting dully on the smallest finger of his right hand finally registers.

He feels your reaction, skin to skin. “What should I tell Stevie?” he asks again.

Your heart is in your throat.  Gold and silver, silver and gold, a chance to build up what’s been torn down.

“Tell him yes,” you say. 

“Okay,” he smiles, and the last bit of ice melts from his warm blue eyes.

Another childish song floats into your mind, the voices of your classmates devoid of Slavic accents:

 _Make new friends but keep the old: one is silver and the other gold._

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky is wearing the ring from my story creatively titled [The Rings.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1940235) :)
> 
> anyone need more of this? We still have three months of fretting before Civil War finally comes out!!!!! o_O


End file.
